


Between a Rock and a Hard Place

by islandkate, WerewulfTherewulf



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Little Blue Pills, M/M, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, Money Making Schemes, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandkate/pseuds/islandkate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewulfTherewulf/pseuds/WerewulfTherewulf
Summary: Four men down on their luck financially come up with with a harebrained scheme to come into a load of money... by stealing erectile enhancement drugs. But things quickly get out of hand, as they do, and soon the entire town is horny and the men find themselves hiding from the law.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The horror at Erebor Island](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7003669) by [Chelidona (Hobbity)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbity/pseuds/Chelidona), [Khim_Azaghal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khim_Azaghal/pseuds/Khim_Azaghal). 



> So we were inspired by Chelidona and Khim_Azaghal, who recently finished their adaptation of a hilarious Irish movie, the Horror at Erebor Island, and we decided that we want to adapt a hilarious Irish movie of our own! We hope you enjoy it :)  
> This fic is based off the movie Hard Times/Holy Water, depending where you live. I... could not recommend it more tbh.

It was windy out, as it always was. Other than being bothersome for his hair, ratting and tangling it up if he didn’t tie it back, Denethor didn’t mind it much. He walked along the cliffs and hills, reveling in the beautiful sights as he played a classic tune on his bagpipes. He walked onward until he reached the highest peak.  There he stood facing the sea, continuing to play the bagpipes until the tune reached its end moments later.  Then, he took a step forward and dropped off the earth.

 _“OOOOOOOORRRRIIIIIIII!”_  

The bagpipes honked and squawked as they hit the rocks all the way down.

 

***

 

Kili crouched down to pick up a heavy rock, hoisted it up onto his shoulder, and held it there as he walked a short way to where his father was.

“You’ll best be getting your own farm, lad,” Thorin told him from where he was leaned on his shovel.

Kili scoffed and dropped the rock heavily onto the ground, turning away and rolling his eyes. “ _Me own farm,_ ” he said under his breath, mockingly.

Thorin stood straight and put a hand on his hip, “What’s that now?”

Kili stopped and turned, “I said, me own… _arm_.”  He loosely flung one up in the air, gesturing with it in the lane where they currently worked.

Bilbo, Thorin’s husband, appeared from around the corner of a neighboring building.  He stalked toward them up the poorly paved road with a bunch of carrots in his hand.

“I’ll put these in the stew tonight, will I?” he asked.

Both Thorin and Kili stared at him until he sighed, stuffed the carrots in his basket, and stomped away.   
  
“Bloody, mangy cats!” he cursed. Kili rolled his eyes again  and turned away, walking back the way Bilbo had come along the lane between ancient farm buildings.

 

***

 

“And next we have a mantle clock! Made in Galway, Victorian. Nice wood case, non-functioning. Do I hear £10? £5?”  Nori stood at the helm of a tiny crowd of folk. He was auctioning off the sparse belongings of old Denethor’s, trying to earn some coin to fund the funeral (so he told the Widow Ecthelion. More likely than not it’d end up in his own pocket).  

  
“Ah, come on ladies and gentlemen,” he beckoned when no one showed interest, “then… then £4. £3! Is there any interest at all among ye?”

Bifur, co-owner and operator of the town’s only hotel, strode forward quietly to take a look at the clock. He picked it up and turned it this way and that, imagining it sitting on his mantle. He looked over at the auctioneer.  “50 pence,” he said.

Nori cringed, “I can’t give it to you for that, Bif. Come on. Three pounds.”

Bifur shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “No, 50p. 50!”

“Three. Pounds.”

Bifur’s good friend Gloin walked up to join the duo, ignoring them and instead picking up a clipboard that had been lying on Denethor’s old piano. He flipped through the pages.

“Gentlemen, three pounds,” Nori sternly told them.

“There’s no reserve.” Gloin said, gesturing with the clipboard, “There’s no reserve!” he tossed the clipboard back onto the piano, “You have to accept the bid."

“But that’s as good as giving it away, Gloin!” whined Nori.

“Where’s your higher bidder?” Gloin countered.

Grimacing, the wiry ginger turned back to the crowd.  “Gentlemen, I’m offered 50 pence. Do I hear a pound? 75p? Madam, look."  He pleaded then sighed, defeated, "Mark it down, 50p."

Bifur clapped Gloin on the shoulder, "Good man, Rock.” He grabbed the clock from where it sat, turned and then walked away. “Where’s your van, Gloin?” he asked the more burly ginger man following him.

“Over there,” the ginger pointed toward a bright green Ereborian Mail van parked at the end of the drive.

 

***

 

The mail van sped along the empty road, hurtling through the countryside. It was a bit of a drive, but finally Bifur and Gloin reached a small stone well; the village’s supply of water. Standing atop the far edge was a statue of the Virgin Mary, looking as aged as the well with chips in the paint and stone. Bifur climbed out of the van whistling a merry tune.  He carried an empty bucket and a backpack.  When he reached the well he crouched next to it and dropped the bucket down into the water.

Gloin leaned out the window of the van. “Our Virgin Mary has shocking big hands, doesn’t she?” he observed.

Bifur pulled the bucket up slowly, careful not to spill too much water.  He placed it on the edge of the well. He then grabbed his backpack and pulled out a handful of small bottles, each with a label that read ‘Holy Water’. He dipped the bottles one by one into the bucket of water.

“You know that’s the same water that trickles out of the sink and your loo, don’t you?” Gloin asked.

“Drawn by hand from the holy well itself, Rock,” Bifur told him, smirking. He held up one of the bottles to see how full it was, then dunked it back into the bucket to fill it up some more. “Won't have the buyer accuse me of false advertising."

Gloin scoffed. “What buyer?”

“Tourists!"  Bifur looked offended.  He did own and run a hotel, the only hotel in the village.  Who else would he sell holy we'll water to?

“What tourists?" Gloin choked.

“Yanks!” Bifur capped the bottle and set it aside to fill the rest, “They think this stuff has healing properties."

“Oh yeah?  And when’s the last time you had a yank staying at the hotel?” Gloin asked with disbelief.

“Feck off,” Bifur snapped, dropping the bucket down the well again. He grabbed the filled bottles and gently put them in the backpack before standing. He leaned over on the well and planted a firm kiss on the Virgin Mary’s head. Then he walked around to the other side of the van, climbed back in and they drove off. The two friends drove back into town, passed the ancient metal sign greeting visitors to Durin’s Leap, and eventually came up behind a flock of sheep. Gloin slowed down, crawling along after them.

“There’s something very feminine about sheep though, have you noticed? It’s like they’re wearing tights or something,” Gloin said after a moment. Bifur turned and looked at him, clock held firmly in his arms.

“If you were a sheep, I’d kiss you, Gloin,” he managed to get it out completely deadpan.

“Oh why thank you!” came an equally dry reply.

Both men burst into laughter and then sped up, finally clearing the sheep. They passed Bifur’s hotel. The building attached to it had a sign hung above with most of the letters fallen off or faded away.  As a result it now read **GAY HOT SAUNA**.

“The hotel is selling up, I see,” Gloin joked.

“Giving up’s more like it." the tall brunette replied.

“At this rate the Leap will be empty in ten years!”  Gloin exclaimed sadly.

Bifur shook his head. “I tell you, believe me, if I could find a buyer for that hotel of mine, I’d be off,” he snapped his fingers, “like that!”

Gloin’s face contorted in disgust, “And have to start working for a living?”

They drove up to a repair garage and parked outside.  “Well there you go. Rehearsal tonight!” Gloin reminded Bifur as the man climbed out.

“It’s what I live for,” Bifur replied. Arms filled with the clock and his backpack, he kicked at the van door to shut it, struggling as Gloin began driving away before it was shut.

Bifur walked into the garage, greeting the man there. “Well, Aragorn, how’s she hanging?”

Aragorn walked over and clapped Bifur on the back. “Another one of your feckin’ antiques, huh?” he asked.

Bifur rotated it and looked it over again. “It’s uh… it’s very rare. Needs a bit of fixing, though,” he said, sheepishly handing it over to Aragorn.

Aragorn scoffed, but took it. “You can get one of these free at the hardware with a new commode!” he exclaimed, leading Bifur back into a smaller area and grabbing a full key ring from a bench. “Where’d you get this article anyway?” he turned back around only to be met with Bifur standing much too close. He leaned back and took a few steps around the man.

“Widow Ecthelion’s auction,” Bifur answered.

“Oh yeah? Any takers?”  This was part of the most excitement in The Leap all season and Aragorn was genuinely interested.

“Couldn’t give the place away if you threw in a chicken, a pig, _and_ the holy well,” Bifur huffed. He grabbed the hat off his head, an old and filthy black thing covered in several small crosses, and scratched his scalp.

Aragorn opened the face of the clock and fiddled with the key ring. “I don’t know, place could look alright with a bit of paint, bit of a white wash."

“Best bet for a buyer, in my opinion, would be a potential suicide!” commented the hotelier.

Aragorn scoffed, “I don’t know.”  He put a small tool from the key ring into the clock, “if I was going to commit suicide,” he twisted it for a second. It clicked, then he slammed the lid back shut, “I’d probably pay rent."  He held the clock up away from them, and they both stared at the device. It chimed, and they both grinned.

“You’re some feckin’ rock!” Bifur cheered, grabbing the clock.

Aragorn smirked. “I know!”

 

***

 

Old Man Radagast sprinkled some food into the filthy and disgusting fish tank, smiling as the fish swam around wildly trying to eat. He turned back around to the bar and was greeted by the handsome young blonde man behind the bar leaving a pint of beer in front of him.  His smiled widened into a grin as he grabbed it and took a long drink.

“Aye, you’re a good lad, Fili.  I’ll be leaving the bar to you when I die!”

Fili grabbed a rag and started drying cleaned glasses.  “Don’t be getting fancy ideas, Uncle,” he told Radagast, “you’ve a good few years left in you yet,”

Radagast’s best friend Gandalf sat a few stools away.  He chimed in, “I’ll be on the way myself any day now. Got my wooden box sorted, ready to go."  He leaned over to Radagast and winked, causing both of them to laugh.

“Can we have one day in this bar without the two of you planning your own funerals?” Fili asked.  “You’re like the grim reaper. Both of you!” he snapped, turning away from them and busying himself at the opposite end of the bar.

“Tragic about old Denethor,” Radagast sighed.

“Old! Sure wasn’t he half my age?” Gandalf grimaced. He turned back away and continued drinking his own beer.

 

***

 

The next afternoon was the funeral.  The weather matched the villagers' moods, grey and drizzling. A horse-drawn cart was being led up the steep streets towards the church by an old man of the village, in it was Denethor’s coffin. Behind the cart walked Father Elrond and Gandalf, who led a small crowd of villagers.

“It’s been twelve years since I celebrated a wedding,” Elrond sighed.

“Well thank God for funerals!” Gandalf replied. The men walked along in silence for a brief moment.

“The bishop will close the church when I turn up my toes,” Elrond said.

“You’ve got miles left yet, Father,” Gandalf tried to encourage.

“That’s what I used to say about poor Denethor. Sure as it turned out, he only had a couple hundred feet left. Straight down!”  Truly a sad retort from a man of the cloth.

Further back in the middle of the crowd were Fili and Bofur, both holding umbrellas as they walked on either side of Ori, who was a sobbing mess.  Bofur had her free arm around Ori, whose face was hidden in a handkerchief as he cried.

“So d’you think he fell, or leapt?” Fili asked playfully from the left.

“Oh God Fili, it doesn’t matter! He’s gone from me now,” Ori snapped, wiping the smile from Fili’s face. Bofur pulled him closer.

“Well he’s gone to a better place now, Ori,” Fili tried.

Ori only cried harder. “Six times he asked me to marry him. Six times! And each time I said no,” he blew his nose loudly into the kerchief, “I should’ve shagged him at least once, before he died!”

Bofur pulled away in shock. “Denethor? I mean God rest his soul and all that, but…” her face twisted up, “but I couldn’t shag him!”

Ori looked at her, horrified and distraught.

“Oh, God, Ori I’m sorry that was insensitive!” Bofur yelped, both she and Fili wrapping their arms around him again.

Near the very back of the group were Bifur, Gloin, Aragorn and Kili, who was trailing quietly behind them all with his hood up.

“He strung the poor fellow along, didn’t he? Playing hard to get, looking for a better offer,” Aragorn piped up. Bifur turned to look back over his shoulder at him. “Now what’s he got? Sweet feck all."

“You think he ever let the poor old fellow get a leg over?” Gloin asked. Bifur gasped and smacked Gloin’s arm, “What! Why not?” Gloin laughed.

“Bony-arsed Ori? Are you mad?” Aragorn asks. Bifur hit him too. “Well, he does have a bony arse!”

As the crowd walked up the winding cobbled road, they passed the tavern. Most continued on up towards the church, but the back half stayed behind at the Green Dragon. Gandalf beckoned them all in but Kili stood there still, staring after Fili, Ori and Bofur. An old man walked by him and slapped him on the back, startling him from his stupor.   
  
“C’mon, Kili, let’s go in for a drink."

Hours later, after the sun had gone down, Kili was trudging by himself down a back path.  He was curled into his coat, face hidden by his hair and the hood, his hands shoved deep into the pockets.  After walking for a while, he veered right and trotted down a slope to a row of homes, entering the one furthest away.

“Here’s Kili now,” Gloin called out from in the small kitchen, where he was preparing tea.

“Hey lads,” Kili said, walking over to where Bifur and Aragorn were sitting by the fireplace, playing their instruments together.

The two men stopped their playing to look up at Kili. “Oh, jeez,” Bifur murmured, placing his bodhran on his lap. Kili walked passed them and straight to the fireplace, turning around to warm his back.

“It’s desperate mild out, huh?” Bifur said, more audibly this time.

“Desperate times, Rock. Where’s your button box? How do you expect to rock ‘n’ roll without your box?” Aragorn asked.

Kili closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering,“I don’t.”  He looked up when Gloin walked through the curtain separating the kitchen from the rest of the house, holding four mugs of hot tea. “No more accordion. I’m leavin’."

Aragorn smiled slightly, unsure, “What you’re leavin’ the band?”

Kili shook his head minutely and stared past them at the floor. “The band, home, this fecking village. Forever."

Bifur kicked out his leg, “Ah, pull the other one, Pebble,” he picked his bodhran up and played a few beats.

“You can’t be serious,” Aragorn sneered.

“I’m as serious as… _Dysentery_!” Kili looked straight at Aragorn. Bifur and Gloin looked at each other and then back at Kili. “I’m leaving before I end up at the bottom of the Leap like Denethor."

Gloin grimaced and handed him a mug, gesturing to an empty chair.  “Sit down and drink your tea! … Before you emigrate,” he demanded. He himself sat down on the arm of his well-loved armchair, the seat of which held Gloin’s fiddle, propped up against the upholstered back.

“Is it after a man?” Bifur asked Kili gently.

Kili scoffed and took a drink from his tea.

“Now what man would that be in these parts?” Aragorn laughed sadly.

“There’s always our Fili,” Gloin suggested, sipping his drink. Kili looked up at him from beneath his eyebrows.

“Aye, sure, Fili. I’ll tend for him, years to come,” Bifur nodded, smiling.

“Yeah you’re dead right. The only way I’m getting laid in these parts is if I crawl up a chicken’s arse and wait!” Kili laughed mirthlessly. All four men sighed.

 

***

 

The next day dawned a sunny one. Gloin was working his post route but was stuck behind a Pfester delivery truck that was headed to the same place he was: Erebor International Airport. The truck pulled up to a series of cones and barricades then halted to a stop.

“God damned fecking detours! We’re gonna miss the flight,” the driver, Boromir, snapped, hitting the wheel.

Faramir, his passenger, reached forward and flicked a switch.  “Shall I call?” he asked.

Boromir sighed loudly. “Nah, let’s just see how bad it is first,” he said. They turned down the road, Gloin following close behind them.

The two vehicles finally pulled into the backlot of the airport, where the Pfester truck was stopped by a man with a bright yellow vest and a clipboard. He talked to Boromir then let them pass after checking their credentials. He tried to do the same with Gloin but the man simply drove past, ignoring him.

Gloin stopped next to Oin, the man who gave him all the mail that needed to be delivered. He hopped out of the van and swung open one of the doors at the back as he walked over to shake the man’s hand.  

“Hey how’s it going? Listen, why do you think the Americans chose Ireland to make those stiff langer tablets?”  He'd been following that truck full of little blue pills for some time and had them on his mind.

Oin thought for a moment. “Well I suppose it’s like the Mirromere Ale in the south. Something to do with the water."

Gloin laughed. “Oh is that right?” he looked over at the Pfester truck across the lot, “Some money in drugs, huh. Must be worth a few grand, that lot?” he asked.

Oin nodded.  “Good as gold, them little blue tablets. The Americans are payin’ a tenner a go for them!”

“What! A tenner?” squawked Gloin. “To shag the missus? Jaysus, them American women have some fancy ideas for a legover.  Meself I’d rather give the old wagon a pat on the ass on my way out the door. There’d be a tenner in my pocket for a few jars at the local."

“That’s the tragedy of America, isn’t it?” Oin observed.

“What?” Gloin asked.

“They’ve no decent beers,” Oin answered.

Both the men laughed, then shook hands. “You’re not wrong! Listen, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gloin said.

“Yeah, see you Gloin,” replied the grizzled grey mail supervisor, “Same time, same place."

 

***

 

That night at the Green Dragon, the boys’ little band was just finishing entertaining the bar from the small stage. Gloin and Bifur were in the front on their fiddle and bodhran, while Aragorn strummed along behind them on his guitar and Kili sat on a small stool all the way in the back with his accordion.

“Thank you! Thanks very much. We’re Flight of the Gemstones, and we’ll be back Saturday next. Same time, same place,” Gloin bowed and Bifur climbed off the stage, happily accepting a small tip from the adorable old couple that had been enjoying the group’s music on the dance floor and thanking them graciously. “Good night. God Bless. Safe home.”  Still on the stage Aragorn and Kili were cleaning things up.

“How’d we do?” Gloin asked Bifur, who was crouched on the ground counting their tips from the night in his hat. Kili and Aragorn had walked to the edge of the stage and looked down, watching.

“Twenty... five for each of us,” came the answer.

“It’ll just be the two pints tonight then,” Gloin nudged Bifur’s shoulder and walked over to their usual table, the other three following.

“Hey Gandalf, how you doing?” Aragorn asked as he passed the old gent nuzzling his ale at an equally ancient wooden table.

“Ah, I’m preparing to die,” he huffed.

“Aren’t we all?” the young man chuckled.

Not long after the four sat down, Fili came over with their pints. “Here you go,” he said, smiling when he met Kili’s eyes. He looked back at Gloin when the man dumped out Bifur’s hat, pouring coins all over the table. Fili collected the coins, thanked them, and went back to the bar.

“You’re still fixed on leaving, are you?” Aragorn asked Kili.  But Kili didn’t hear him, he was still fixated on Fili, gaping openly at the handsome blond. Aragorn scoffed and leaned over the table, smacking Kili on the forehead and shocking him out of his stupor. “Are you still fixed on leaving?”

Kili glared at Aragorn, rubbing his head. “Yeah, I am. My mind’s made up,” he replied grumpily.

“What if we come up with some kind of plan, Pebble, huh?” Bifur asked, “Make you reconsider. Make you a bit of money?”

Kili looked around at his three older friends, “Plan?”  He was incredulous, “What kind of plan? What are you… you gonna rob a bank or something? Have to find a bank in this parish anyhow."

“Doesn’t have to be a bank,” Gloin said, hiding behind his drink.

Later in the evening Gloin and Kili sat together in the post van.

“Sweet feck’s all I got,” Kili mumbled, looking out at the stone buildings and weedy lane.

“You’ll be inheriting the farm,” Gloin pointed out.

Kili turned his face into the window, “Gah, Jesus, I’ll be 60 by then, and still living with the fathers."

“What if Bif found you some work at the hotel? He’d give you a bit of extra dosh,” Gloin tried to encourage is young friend.

“Could never work indoors,” Kili cringed, “Without all the fresh air, it’d kill me."

“What you need is a man with his own farm,” Gloin said, or his own bar, he kept to himself.

“We all need a man with their own farm," Kili agreed.  "It’s a disappointment all around.”  He sighed, “Well, it’s the boat to England for me."

“Must be some alternative!”  Gloin was adamant.

They remained silent for several beats.

“I could push Thorin down the holy well,” Kili suggested, snorting.

“And contaminate the village water supply!” Gloin laughed.

“I can’t get him close enough to the leap to push him off there!” Kili joined him in, laughing.

“Must be something better than murderin’ and pollutin’ the drinking water,” the redhead postman sighed.

Kili took in a deep breath, and sighed. “Well, I’m all ears and no prospects."

“Like Prince Charles himself!”  They both laughed at Gloin's observation.


End file.
